


Cops and Robbers

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, BDSM, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Play, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Police Uniforms, Praise Kink, Roleplay, Uniform Kink, enjoy, this is complete and utter filth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 21:13:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8816419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: Sherlock gets more than he bargained for.(AKA: porn)





	1. Chapter 1

Marcus Bell stood with his weight shifted onto one leg, his hips cocked, a stance that spoke of confidence and power. The officer’s shirt he was wearing was ironed smooth, tucked into his pants, a belt tight against his solid waist, a shined badge pinned by the buckle. He held his chin high, reflective aviator sunglasses and a skewed policeman cap completing a mouth-wateringly erotic picture. In one hand, he held a baton, and in the other, a set of handcuffs.

He took a step closer. Sherlock strained against the ropes that secured him to the bed, swallowing thickly. He’d not actually expected Marcus to want this. He’d suggested this specific roleplay scenario only out of cockiness, out of a desire to see Marcus squirm uncomfortably.

But he could see, now, that he’d misread the situation entirely. When Marcus had averted his eyes and cleared his throat, it hadn’t been from embarrassment, but rather from arousal.

“I see I don’t need these,” Marcus held up the handcuffs, speaking slowly, “you’re all tied up for me.”

His shoes made measured, hard noises against the wooden floor. Sherlock’s eyes moved up and down Marcus’ body, hungrily cataloguing the way the policeman uniform clung to every curve and slope. His arse, especially, made Sherlock hot, made him shift on the bed.

“Yes,” he said, “I am.”

Marcus continued his slow walk forward, and it was unbearable. How much Sherlock wanted this. Here he was, naked and vulnerable, and Marcus was actually going to take his time. Just like Sherlock had asked, but never actually expected.

With movements that were as unhurried and calm as his walk had been, Marcus slowly kneeled on the bed, his knees spread wide, the sway of his hips emphasised by tight fabric. He brought forward the baton, ran it down Sherlock’s chest.

“Have you been bad?” He asked, softly, and the question should’ve made Sherlock laugh, should’ve made him mocking and scornful. But, instead, he sucked in a sharp breath, as the baton was pressed against his cock.

“Yes,” he whispered– then, clearing his throat, he tried to salvage some semblance of dignity by adding, “Yes, I have, Marcus.”

A hand darted up to grab his face, fingers gripping his chin. Marcus held the baton against his cheek, and the cold surface made Sherlock’s heart race.

“You will call me Detective Bell, or Sir. Is that clear?”

Sherlock could’ve fainted from how perfect this was.

“Yes,” he breathed, “Sir.”

Marcus smirked. “Good boy.”

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

This was what he’d wanted.

To submit, entirely, to a fantasy that was as innocent as it was indecent. Roleplay, the kind he’d usually laugh at– it was simple, so basic. Control, power, and need. On his knees before a gorgeous man.

 _His_ gorgeous man.

Marcus gripped his hair with leather-clad fingers, his gloves fitted and glossy, just further evidence of his strength. The image of him was perfect; ironed clothes, shined shoes, not one single hair out of place. Meanwhile, Sherlock was bared, vulnerable, weak, barely able to breathe as he sucked cock, his knees aching against the floor where Marcus had demanded he kneel.

Filthy.

Sherlock’s eyes were closed, and he couldn’t keep the need from his face, couldn’t keep the whimpers quiet. And he wasn’t expected to, tonight. He was expected to give in. And it was so easy. So sinful. So perfect.

“That’s it,” Marcus murmured, “god, look at that face. So fucking perfect.”

Sherlock moaned, and Marcus yanked his hair.

“You feel so good,” he crooned, and the baton slid down Sherlock’s face, “you’re being so good for me.”

It made him tingle, made him shake, being praised. How odd, that a roleplay centred around punishment should cater for that particular kink. Then again, Marcus knew him; knew what he needed, knew what he wanted. Even now, even with him on his knees, reduced to nothing but a warm mouth and a willing body.

Exactly how he wanted it.

“You love it, don’t you? You love having my dick in your mouth, like some whore. Is that what you are? Are you my whore?”

In lieu of answering, Sherlock pressed forward, swallowed him deeper, craning his neck. Marcus had bound his hands behind his back, but all Sherlock wanted to do was touch Marcus, slide fingers up his waist, down his thighs-

“You’re my perfect little slut.”

Sherlock whined, and wished he could beg, though he didn’t even know what he’d ask for if he had a voice; he didn’t know what he wanted, he didn’t know what he needed. He felt so freed. He was at the mercy of someone else, utterly and entirely, and it was intoxicating. Able to give in to a fantasy, and disregard himself.

Become nothing. Embrace the eroticism of being utterly objectified.

The fingers in his hair tightened, and Sherlock swallowed thickly as Marcus started to fuck his face. It was all he could do to breathe, to try and hold on. He was so uncomfortable, so unsteady on the floor where he was kneeling, and that made it even more perfect. He wanted to be used, fucked, discarded. He was so hard that it hurt, but he didn’t matter. All that mattered was what Marcus wanted, what he needed.

Sherlock was nothing.

 

 ***

 

When Marcus was done with his mouth, he pushed Sherlock onto the bed, shoved him facedown into the pillow. Sherlock went willingly, weak and limp. He was sore and shaking, and couldn't help but sway his hips against the sheets, in a desperate attempt to get himself off.

The baton came down on his arse, and he cried out.

"Be a good boy for me," Marcus whispered in his ear, leaning forward, his clothed chest pressing against Sherlock's back, "or I don't give you what you want."

Sherlock panted into the pillow, the taste of come sticky in his mouth. He felt a desperate sob building in his throat, and he let it out, pressing his face into fabric. Marcus hushed him.

"Don't worry, I'm nearly done with you."

There was a jangle of a belt, and Sherlock breathed in sharply, fully aware what was coming next. He stiffened, gasping, and a hand gently caressed the raw skin where the baton had struck.

"Relax for me."

Sherlock tried. But, before he was anywhere close to ready, Marcus was pushing into him.

He cried out. He sobbed. He moaned. It hurt, it stung, it ached and it  _burned._

And it was the best feeling in the world.

 

***

 

Marcus came inside him.

It was perfect, just how Sherlock had wanted it to be.

When they were finished, Marcus cleaned them both up, pulled off the sunglasses and the hat and the silly uniform. Sherlock mourned the outfit, but could hardly have been disappointed with the sight of a shirtless Marcus Bell.

"Hey," Marcus smiled, pulling him close, "you good?"

"That was perfect." Sherlock murmured against his chest.

Marcus chuckled in agreement. "Yeah, it bloody was. I need you to answer me, though, 'cause we just did some intense stuff. You good?"

Sherlock smiled softly, his eyes closed. "Yes."

"Good."

They were quiet, for a moment.

"Thank you, Marcus," Sherlock whispered, "for indulging me."

Marcus kissed the top of his head gently. "Always, babe."

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
